


give my reflection a break

by autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 20:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13038771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/autoeuphoric
Summary: When the bell rings, she almost doesn’t answer. She hasn’t ordered anything and it’s too early for carolers. She does not speak to her neighbors, and she’s not about to start today.Joan gets up and answers the door anyway. Because she wants to.(no point in spending Christmas alone, is there?)





	give my reflection a break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radioqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioqueen/gifts).



> Thank you so much for letting me write this pairing--your prompts were extremely inspiring!

It’s 5 pm on Christmas Eve and Dr. Joan Bright is on her second whisky. She isn’t proud of this, but she’s cutting herself a little holiday slack. When the bell rings, she almost doesn’t answer. She hasn’t ordered anything and it’s too early for carolers. She does not speak to her neighbors, and she’s not about to start today. 

Joan gets up and answers the door anyway. Because she wants to. 

Across the street a house pulses in a spasmodic light display of blue and white and red. Seasonal or patriotic? Maybe both. And impossible to ever close her blinds tight enough against. Joan doesn’t have any lights, or tinsel, or a tree. She doesn’t have any cookies or eggnog or sweaters with snowmen on them. The only thing more pathetic than being alone on Christmas is pretending you aren’t. 

The psychologist in her admonishes her for negative self-talk. The thirty-three year old woman with no contacts in her phone besides patients and her exes thinks she hasn’t had enough whisky. 

She opens the door. 

“Evening, Dr. B. Fancy finding you at home on this fine day of the year.” Grey eyes narrow, merciless. “Alone.” 

Joan should slam the door in his face. 

But she doesn’t want to. 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” 

_Of course not, you overbearing piece of shit_. She opens up her mouth to say it. 

But it’s cold out here and it is Christmas, after all. 

“Please, come in.” 

Damien practically skips over the mat. “Don’t mind if I do.” 

He waltzes down the hall like he’s been here a hundred times, trailing his fingers along the wall. In the sitting room he takes in the bookshelves, coffee table, and spotless couch. The Salvador Dali print on the wall. Joan’s nest in the big chair by the window, her laptop balanced on one arm, the whisky bottle tucked against a pillow. 

“Expecting a wild night?” 

Joan flushes. 

Despite her best efforts to not give a shit, she’s ashamed to be spending the holiday alone. Not for any social reason, or because she’s lonely. It’s simply proof that one more year has slipped by, and she has yet to rescue Mark from the clutches of the AM. Another Christmas, another failure. 

“You’re getting better.” 

“Oh, you noticed?” Coy. 

Damien's power usually feels invasive, clutching fingers contorting her insides, making her perform actions without any cause. If Damien has learned to plant reasons in people’s heads-- _you want to let me in because it’s cold outside, you want to like me because I’m such a great guy_ , that’s dangerous. That’s harder to detect. 

“Aren’t you gonna offer me a drink?” 

Joan pulls a second bottle out of the liquor cabinet, then heads to the kitchen for ice. Damien doesn’t follow her; she’s still close enough that she will want to give him the drink. No need to stalk her. Outside the picture window, a woman and her daughter are getting out of their car and walking into a neighboring house, both of them loaded down with wrapped gifts. It’s already too dark to see their faces. 

Joan brings the whisky back out to Damien, who has made himself comfortable on the couch. He’s in the same grimy leather jacket he wears all the time. He sips and smirks, infinitely pleased with himself. He doesn’t comment that she has chosen her cheapest whisky to serve him; he probably can’t tell. 

“Closed for the holidays’ is not an invitation, Damien.” She doesn’t bother asking how he got her address--he got it out of Sarah or followed Joan home. “Coming here was completely inappropriate. I don’t allow patients into my home, even ones who _do_ make appointments through proper channels.” Inhabiting her doctor persona here, in her living room, feels strange. And standing in front of Damien with nothing on but a pair of leggings and an oversize sweater feels naked. She hasn’t even showered today. She’s wearing her fuzzy socks. 

“Oh, we both know we’re more than doctor and patient, Dr. B. We’re friends, and friends spend holidays together, don’t they?” 

Joan crosses her arms. “I already have plans.” 

“No, you don’t.” He stands back up and downs the whisky in a single hard gulp, throat working. He puts a fist against his lips, pretending to wipe his mouth, but Joan can tell how just how badly he wants to cough. 

“So you came over here to, what, force me to spend time with you?” She should have foreseen this as possibility, but she had assumed that Damien wouldn’t escalate his harassment, at least not so soon. Stupid. 

Damien puts the glass down on the corner of the coffee table, squaring it to the edge. “Why don’t we go grab some dinner. C’mon.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “You know you want to.” 

“I--.” It really _would_ be nice to get out of the house, wouldn’t it? And it’s _pathetic_ to spend Christmas Eve by yourself, everyone knows that. “I don’t think much will be open.” 

“I’m sure we can find something,” Damien says. He looms, utilizing every inch of height he has on her. “With our powers combined.” 

Damien’s ability tugs at her, a magnet in her guts. Emotion is funneled into her, and she needs all of her focus to even form words, to say anything besides, _yes yes yes anything you want_. 

“I need to shower,” she manages. 

Damien’s gaze flicks down to her throat, her mouth, the frizzy braid slung over her shoulder. Something huge and carnivorous brushes against her, the impulse to sway forward filling her, before it quietly subsides. 

Damien swallows visibly, like he’s still trying to deal with the whisky. “You look fine. Just go get a scarf. It’s chilly.” 

Joan gets a scarf. She wouldn’t want to be chilly. 

 

Joan drives, because Damien doesn’t have a car. She doubts he even has a license--why bother when you can convince anyone in the world to become your own personal Uber driver? She is wearing a blue and purple knitted scarf one of her patients had given her the Christmas before, a pyromancer who sneezed sparks and had burned down two of her family homes. Joan has never put it on before. She doesn’t usually wear scarves. 

That moment in the living room--the little magnetic rush when she had noticed the slight tint of stubble on the the underside of Damien’s chin, the way his hair curled down past his ears, how in the dim sitting room his eyes were perfectly black, no pupil--sends unease creeping through her like climbing vines. So far, Damien has only used his powers to get her to listen to him and pour him drinks, to pretend, for an hour every week, that she cares about him. It’s part of Joan’s job to keep abreast of local crime, incidents that appear Atypical-related, and she hasn’t seen any indication that Damien is doing anything serious enough to get reported online. But escalation is definitely a possibility for an asocial personality like his. 

Damien is busy fiddling with the radio, which is why Joan is even able to entertain this line of thinking. When he focuses, his ability fills her with a bubbly contentment. She is happy to be here sitting next to Damien, happy to drive him wherever he might want to go. 

She focuses on the road. Hardly anyone is out, and only a few days out from the shortest night of the year, almost completely dark. Damien doesn’t appear to have a destination in mind, he just made noises in the direction of downtown. Joan doesn’t much care where they go. She’ll enjoy whatever they do, which makes her so angry her hands shake briefly on the steering wheel, until that’s all wiped away by that same bland pleasure. 

She glances into the rearview mirror, barely recognizing herself. This is not the face she leaves her house with. No makeup, bangs hanging in oily clumps against her temples. This is the face she sees in the bathroom mirror before a shower. 

“I can’t believe you made me leave the house looking like this,” she says. “My hair--.” 

“I like your hair.” 

Damien is still flicking through the radio channels, and it’s an offhand comment, not like he’s attempting flattery or any of his usual manipulation. He barely seems aware of what he said. 

“I’m thinking of cutting it.” She isn’t. She doesn’t know why she says it. 

“Huh?” Finding nothing but an endless stream of Christmas music, Damien just slaps the radio off. Usually Joan just plays music from her phone, but that is still sitting charging on the kitchen counter. Damien hadn’t given her a chance to grab it before they left. 

“My hair.” _I have been abducted. That’s what’s happening right now. Even if we aren’t going far, I have been forcibly removed from my home._ “I’m thinking about cutting it.” 

“Don’t,” Damien says. “I prefer long hair.” 

Joan snorts and hits her turn signal. “You and every other man who ever thought a woman cared about his opinion on the matter.” 

Damien makes a choked sound next to her; she can’t tell if it’s annoyance or amusement, and she doesn’t care enough to find out. They drive the rest of the way in silence. 

Joan had been right; there isn’t much open downtown. A few bars, a Walgreens, and a small bistro with holiday hours taped up on the door in barely legible handwriting. They’re closing in fifteen minutes. Joan points this out to Damien, who hooks an eyebrow at her. He opens the door and gestures her inside with a sweep of his arm. Joan rolls her eyes and walks in. 

The hostess has earrings that look like tiny chandeliers. “Sorry folks, we seated our last party ten minutes ago.” 

“I told you,” Joan tells Damien, glad to be proven right at the same time she’s annoyed at having her time wasted. 

As if he hadn’t seen the huge, obvious sign, Damien shows the hostess his phone screen. “It’s barely seven.” 

“We’re closing early for Christmas,” the hostess says, with the air of someone who’s had to repeat this information over and over again. “We were just about to lock the door.” 

Damien leans over the hostess stand. She begins to flinch back, but the motion is arrested halfway through, like she’s been put on pause. “Were you really now? Don’t you think that’s a little insensitive when you have two very, very hungry paying customers right in front of you?” 

Joan rubs at her forehead. 

“Where’s your Christmas spirit?” Damien says with all the oily charm of a salesman. 

“We--.” The hostess smiles. “Of course, you’re right, that was super rude of me! Follow me, folks!” 

Damien follows the hostess and Joan follows Damien as he rejects the first two tables she brings them to, choosing instead one against the far wall near the door to the kitchen. The restaurant is one of those modern fusion places, all glass and leather and light wood, where everything is flavored with lemongrass and they leave a glass bottle of tap water on the table for you to refill your own cups. A few tables are still occupied by straggling diners. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.” Damien has a naturally resonant voice, and the high ceilings don’t hurt. Conversation quiets, faces turning toward him, confusion sliding into rapt attention. “Don’t any of you have any Christmas spirit? What are you doing out on a night like tonight? You should all be at home with your families, enjoying one another’s company. Only loners and maniacs are out on a night like this.” He gives Joan a sly look. She’s surprised he doesn’t wink. It seems he is perfectly willing to be labeled a deviant if there is someone there with him. 

Some of the diners hold out longer than others, but in the end they all succumb--draining glasses, pulling on coats, talking excitedly about what’s waiting for them out in the world, at home, anywhere but here. They don’t move like mindless puppets--like Joan has told Damien, it isn’t mind control. They all just appear to have the idea to get up and leave at the same time, casually, naturally. Damien watches, eyes dancing. He’s almost glowing. 

Joan has observed that the repression of an Atypical’s power can have adverse effects on their health, but she hasn’t dedicated much study to the opposite being true. That an Atypical fully embracing their powers would spike serotonin levels in the brain, like drugs or sex or aerobic exercise. But looking at Damien, the way his posture has loosened, expression gone lazy….she wishes they were in her lab so she could take his pulse. His eyes are too dark for her to tell if they are dilated. Maybe all the flirty smiles aren’t just him trying to be charmingly threatening. Maybe they’re biological. 

They sit down and the hostess hands them a wine list. Damien flicks through the pages and then tosses it back to her. “Just bring us the most expensive thing you have.” 

“I--,” a muscle twitches in her cheek. “I’ll tell your server.” 

“Thanks, darling.” 

Joan rolls her eyes, waiting for the hostess to retreat before she says, “I don’t suppose you’re planning on paying for that?” 

Damien leans back in his chair. “Now why would I do a silly thing like that when I don’t have to?” 

Joan doesn’t say _because it’s the right thing to do_. No point wasting her time. 

Damien sends the majority of the staff home, including the hostess with the chandelier earrings. That leaves a skeleton crew of a server, busboy, and two chefs, who all approach Damien with wariness that bleeds into the bland willingness to obey his wishes. 

“That was...surprisingly decent of you.” 

“Hmm?” Damien is squinting down at his menu. 

“You. Letting those employees leave.” 

He snorts. “I didn’t need them all, and I wouldn’t just keep them out of spite. I’m no Grinch.” 

“What?” 

“You know--.” Damien makes a wide, ambiguous gesture with one hand. “Skinny green guy, hates Christmas?” 

“I know what the Grinch is, Damien.” It had, in fact, been Mark’s favorite Christmas story. He’d memorized it as a child, then sat there turning the pages and reciting aloud, pretending he could read. “I just wouldn’t expect you of all people to make a Suess reference.” 

“What’s the supposed to mean, ‘me of all people?’ I had a childhood, you know. It wasn’t great, but it happened. I had parents who brought me to playgrounds and read me books. Villains have to come from somewhere.” 

Joan suppresses the impulse to roll her eyes. “You’re not a villain, Damien. You’re just an asshole.” 

Damien really, _really_ likes that. A slow, rolling smile spreads over his face. “Now, now, Dr. Bright. I didn’t know you had it in you.” 

“You’ve only ever seen me in work mode,” Joan says. “And since you want me to act like this is a social call…” She trails off as their server returns, setting down two glasses and a dark bottle with a label all in French. She pours the tiniest bit into one of the glasses and lets Damien taste it. He sniffs, rolling it around in the glass, before taking a sip. Joan wonders if he actually knows how to drink wine, or if he’s just seen it in movies. She wonders how many emotional responses of Damien’s are genuine and how many are mimicry. Sociopaths are supposed to only be able to feign emotions, but Joan would argue that that’s all anyone does--feels the effects of chemical interactions in the brain and then acts on them in the way they’ve seen others do. All of us are mimics in our own way. 

Damien approves the wine and the server pours them both a glass. Joan thanks her demurely, all of them playing as if this is normal, as if Damien isn’t holding these people hostage, isn’t holding _Joan_ hostage. 

“I have more trouble imagining _you_ as a child,” Damien says, his lips wet from the wine, just the tiniest spot of red. “The famous Joan Bright, preteen.” He snorts. “Can’t see it.” 

“Please.” Infamous, maybe. In certain circles. “You think I sprang out of my father’s head fully-formed, like Athena?” 

“I was thinking more like Amaterasu.” 

“Why, because I’m Japanese?” 

“Because she created herself. I can’t imagine you with parents.” 

The waitress returns with their appetizers, asparagus in some sauce flavored with something that isn’t quite lemongrass but might as well be. Regardless, it’s delicious. Or maybe Damien just wants her to think it’s delicious. He seems to like it, taking delicate little bites of the stem end. Joan keeps swooping between enjoyment and frustration, horror and excitement, pulses of her own desires rising up through the swirling dark waters of Damien’s. 

This is unsustainable, second guessing whose desires are whose. She’s going to exhaust herself. She just needs to ride out the rest of the night and get away from him. Like with so many things in life, the only way out is through. 

“What about your parents?” Joan asks carefully, steering the conversation away from her own family. She doesn’t want him to get curious and start insisting she share. She has plans for some of her patients in regards to Mark, but not yet, and certainly not with Damien. “Do they live around here?” 

Damien waggles his finger obnoxiously. “You aren’t gonna get me that easily.” 

“I’m simply making conversation,” Joan says. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on a date, ask each other about your lives?” 

The candle on the table burnishes Damien, turning the hollows in his cheeks to craters. “I never said this was a date.” 

Heat hits Joan like a smack in the face, flooding down to pool in the pit of her stomach. 

“You want it to be?” 

“I emphatically don’t,” Joan says. Her hand is shaking so badly she has to put her glass down so he won’t see it. He wants her to be ashamed, that’s why it’s hitting her so hard, but it’s still awful. She switches conversational tracks to what Damien is most likely to want to talk about: himself. 

“Is it harder to control people when you’re drinking?” 

Damien’s eyes narrow. 

“That’s the real reason you sent most of the staff home, isn’t it? It’s harder to control groups. I expect it’s a bit like wifi. The more devices, the more diluted the signal.” 

Damien spears his last asparagus. He’s eating with his dessert fork. “Well, aren’t you clever.” 

“If I wasn’t, I expect you wouldn’t waste your time with me.” 

Damien grins; he seems genuinely delighted. That’s why he bothers her so much, why he insists on continuing to force his presence on her once she has made it clear she has nothing but disdain for him. It’s not just that she has information on Atypicals. She has demonstrated that she isn’t afraid of him. If she would only admit her fear, he would probably leave her alone. Just another ant to be stepped on and scraped aside. Another sheep. As much as he likes to play the manipulator, the delighted puppet master, he desperately wants someone to fight back. 

Damien pours them both more wine. “It isn’t harder,” he says thoughtfully, and Joan is confused before she realizes he is answering her question. “It’s more...more fluid. The way conversation becomes smoother and more natural, but it’s easier to say things you don’t mean. Right?” 

Joan feels the alcohol fogging her head, competing with Damien’s power. “Right.”

Damien pushes his plate aside, leaning on his fist, one elbow on the table. Joan’s mother would smack it off. “It isn’t harder to affect people, but it can get harder to keep control of what I want.” 

Is it just the wine talking, or does his gaze stray when he says it? She looks like hell right now, so probably.

Joan is intrigued despite herself. “Explain that further.” 

“I mean, this power can be dangerous. You know that, Dr. B. You’re the one who keeps telling me.” He grins, and a hard spike of arousal hits Joan deep in her belly, followed by a hot thrill of fear. 

She drinks more wine. If he’s going to force these feelings on her, she is certainly not going to be sober for it. “So what you’re saying is that when you’re drinking, you could lose control of your thoughts and decide that everyone here should grab a knife from the kitchen and slit their throats?” 

“It doesn’t work like that.” Damien is fidgety, his fingers flirting with the candle flame, coming close enough that it must hurt. “I wouldn’t really want that, you know? It doesn’t work with just flights of fancy. You might stand on a balcony and think, hmm, it would be wild if I just jumped off, wouldn’t it? There’s nothing stopping me, I could just do it. But you don’t, because you don’t really want to.” 

“You mean, it’s just an intrusive thought.” 

“Exactly. It doesn’t work if I’m just, oh, wouldn’t it be funny if I wanted this or that? Genuine desires are more complicated than that. They’re deeper.” 

Damien breaks off as the waitress arrives with their main course--steak for Joan, a rice and tofu dish for Damien. Joan wonders if he’s a vegetarian. He could even be a vegan--he’d avoided dairy as well. Imagine that, a vegan mind controller. Won’t eat meat, but has no trouble forcing this girl to stay after her shift on Christmas Eve of all nights. _Just a little bit longer_ , Joan wants to tell her. Just a little bit longer and he’ll leave you alone forever. She doesn’t think she’s ever going to get that lucky. 

“What are you thinking about?” Damien asks. 

“How do you know I’m thinking about anything at all?” 

“You’re always thinking.” 

Joan’s steak is bloody in the center, exactly the way she likes it. She hopes Damien is a vegetarian and that it is causing him discomfort. “I was just thinking that you know yourself far better than you let on. I mean, you’ve thought about this a lot.” 

“Of course I have.” 

“Then why bother with me? If you can figure all of this out on your own.” 

“Because I like you.” 

Joan stops with her fork halfway to her mouth. They have a derivation of this conversation every session, but Damien has never just come out and said something like that. Must be the wine, and the atmosphere, practically alone in a dim, candlelit restaurant on Christmas. Her life is absurd. 

Damien rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, doc. Don’t get weird on me. I’m not trying to propose to you. I just like being around you.” 

“Why?” Exasperation sticks hard in the back of her throat. 

His fingers are close enough to almost touch the flames, but still he doesn’t move them. They must be burning. “I like people who like me.” 

“I don’t like you at all.” 

“Alright.” He grins. “But you do think I’m fascinating.” 

She does. She wouldn’t need to be halfway drunk to admit that. His power is something she would have given her left arm to be able to study back when she worked for the AM. His power is far from limitless, but it still has such a capacity for application. And destruction. And that’s why she absolutely can never let anyone at the AM get ahold of him. 

“Doesn’t that hurt?” 

Damien looks down at his fingers. “Yes,” he says, and draws his hand away, all the way down into his lap. He grins. He isn’t handsome. At least, not magazine handsome. He has a large nose and ragged hair that he probably cuts himself. His eyes are just circles of black. Honestly, he isn’t the sort of guy you would even look twice at in a sane world. But there’s something undeniably...magnetic about him. It’s the line he walks between ridiculous dramatism and legitimate menace. He dresses like he wants to blend into the scenery, but talks like a con man, all flash and style. 

She wonders what he sees when he looks at her. 

“I do find you fascinating,” she says finally, because he’s still waiting for a response. “But you are unbelievably frustrating.” 

“What, you’re trying to tell me the great Dr. Bright doesn’t appreciate a challenge?” 

His gaze is disquieting, so she looks at his hands instead. His fingers are slender for a man’s, a few crooked knuckles. Joan wonders if he got them from punching walls or punching people. What reason would he have to punch anyone? Why would you ever get mad if you always got everything you wanted? 

“You aren’t a challenge, Damien. You’re a brick wall. It’s not a challenge if there’s no chance of success.” 

“So you only play games you know you can win?” 

“This isn’t a game.” 

He leans over the table, hair dangerously close to the candle flame. “And that isn’t an answer.” 

Joan snorts. “You’re one to talk. Nothing in your life is a challenge. You’ve never had to work for anything you’ve ever wanted. If I had your power, god--.” 

“What? Don’t stop now.” A thread of menace. “Tell me.” 

“There’s so much you could do, Damien! If you would only work harder to control your power--.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Damien snaps. “No one does.” 

 

The ride home is as quiet as the ride downtown. Joan goes the speed limit and pays careful attention to the traffic lights. She knows her limits enough to be sure she’s fine to drive, but she probably still wouldn’t pass a breathalizer. 

Damien’s silence is different this time. Less smug, more sullen. He stares out the passenger window at the light displays, the Christmas Eve traffic, the train that trundles by and forces them to stand in one place for over five minutes. Joan can’t think of anything to say. Joan and Damien don’t do small talk. She can’t help thinking that she has let him down in some way, that she has failed him in some fundamental aspect of her personality. 

It shouldn’t bother her--maybe he’ll finally leave her alone. Shouldn’t, but it does. Maybe it’s the therapist in her, even if he isn’t really her patient. There are moments when she thinks she has him figured out, and others when she is utterly confounded. Does he want to be feared, or loved? Understood, or seen as an enigmatic, untouchable being? 

Does he love his power, or does he want it gone? 

Is he as lonely as she is? 

Joan pulls the car into the driveway. When she gets out, Damien follows her, walking her to the door like a date bringing her home from a football game. 

Not that she went to football games. Or had many dates. High school was a blur of caffeine, required reading, and misery, her parents unable to fathom why such a brilliant girl could have such an awful attendance record. 

_The classes are boring_ , she tried to explain. _I can learn more on my own._

But nobody believed her, and if they did, nobody cared. 

There have been very few people in her life who actually cared about what she wanted. At least the man on her porch doesn’t lie about it. 

The neighbor’s Christmas lights strobe green and red, alternately lighting Damien up and throwing him into shadows. “Dear god, that is irritating.” 

Joan flicks a glance at the waving Santa and his two cheerful reindeer. “Every night I lie in bed, contemplating murder.” 

Damien’s grin is crooked. 

Joan imagines him closing the few feet between them and kissing her. She imagines that lean, raw-boned body pressing her up against the brick beside the door. His mouth would be warm and wet. It is always so much more expressive than his eyes. She imagines it between her legs. He wouldn’t be kind. He’d force her down and cover her mouth so she couldn’t scream, fuck her hard and fast and brutal, because Damien doesn’t care about anything but himself. 

And all of a sudden she wants it. _Burns_ with it. She looks at Damien, and he wants it too, has all night. It’s what he’d come here for. It doesn’t matter if it’s his power making her want it or not, it’s going to happen regardless. 

He steps forward and she steps back, shoulders hitting the cold brick. “Damien--.”

He’s close enough to smell the wine on his breath. His eyes, always dark places, are a wasteland. She’s never appreciated how much taller than her he is, how much he can loom when he puts his shoulders into it. He leans close, mouth by her ear, breath hot on her neck. Her skin burns. She’s never wanted anyone so much in her life. 

“Merry Christmas, Dr. B.” 

He leaves her on the porch, breathing like she’s run up ten flights of stairs. The darkness swallows him up. Across the street, the lights continue their ceaseless, maddening dance. Joan drags herself inside, wandering from room to room and turning on lights. She picks up the whisky bottle and puts it back on the shelf. The dark, bubbling pressure takes a long time to fade, and it makes her wonder if Damien hadn’t left after all, he’s still crouched somewhere nearby, forcing her to want him and not letting her have it. She lies in the bath and brings herself off twice, and even then her skin feels too tight. 

God, what will she do the next time she sees him? 

_What you have to do. You are a professional. You deal with unusual powers all the time_. No point in pretending anything untoward had happened, because it hadn’t. Feelings aren’t reality. 

A few minutes to midnight and she is climbing into bed, when she realizes that something is missing. The neverending nightmare strobe of the neighbor’s lights have gone dark. The giant Santa is invisible in the gloom. 

Could be the house did what it had been threatening to do for weeks and blown a fuse. Then again, could have been a smirking man in a brown leather coat, standing on the porch and asking them--politely--to turn off the lights. 

A Christmas miracle.

**Author's Note:**

> Damien is wrong about Amaterasu--she didn't create herself. As to whether he genuinely made a mistake or was just covering for a tactless comment, well, your guess is as good as mine.


End file.
